Eternal Birthday
by Charlien
Summary: "I don't need to celebrate any birthdays." ; "Why not?" Alfons had asked. ; "It's only a countdown to death." Birthday gift oneshot for the angst-loving Goregeous!


This just a short and angsty oneshot written for Stefaine / Goregeous, a fellow angst lover, on her 18th birthday on June 1st. **Happy birthday!**

Nothing is owned by me, but no other than Hiromu Arakawa.

Story betaed by Aevium.

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**Eternal Birthday**

"Why won't you tell me when your birthday is?" Alfons had once asked him, his voice filled with dismal disappointment. Perhaps a bit inflated, but still the dissatisfaction of not knowing had been genuine.

"I don't see why it's that important," Edward replied reluctantly. "I don't need to celebrate any birthdays."

"Why not?" Alfons had asked.

"It's only a countdown to death."

"No, it's not," Alfons had whispered then, his throat hoarse and sore of coughing. "It's a celebration of life."

"Says you, who didn't even get to celebrate your own next birthday," Edward mumbled solemnly. He stroked Alfons' blond, spiky bangs away from blue eyes so lifeless that they might as well have been stealing the life out of his own. With no muscles in function, the body felt heavy in his arms.

The air was chilly in the bedroom. The light was dim, only shimmering from the stump of a white candle on the nightstand next to the bed. The flame was small and fragile, waiting to die, to drown in the liquid swamp of wax surrounding it.

Alfons lay in silence, resting against Edward's chest. Skin cold, pale white, chest lacking the vital movement of breath. On his cheek there were still traces of exaggerated blood after the boy's last gasp, caused by the curse that had possessed his body, before his lungs had refused to intake any more of life. Alfons Heiderich had died in Edward's arms on a cold winter night.

"If you still want to know, it's too late," Edward whispered as a gentle tear escaped from the barrier of gold. "My birthday was yesterday."

"There's always a next time," Alfons would've said and he would've smiled.

"If there is, I want it to be now. Now or never. Because then you would still be here." Edward shifted and laid Alfons' head carefully down on the pillow. His shirt was unbuttoned, his favourite shirt, now corrupted in crimson.

Edward kneeled on top of the bed and closed his eyes.

If a life in solitude meant that you could choose to be alone, a life of loneliness would be an unwilling path.

Being in this world with Alfons had been his life in solitude. Being in this world without Alfons would be a life of loneliness. A life of solitude could be shared. Loneliness couldn't. He had shared everything with Alfons, and being without him felt like _he_ might as well could have been the dead one.

He lifted the object in his hand to his chest. The pain did him nothing. He was immune against it. The round lines were scraped with the practice and experience. Perfect circles. Triangles. His heart had gotten a crimson tattoo on the outside of his smooth skin. Circles of blood. It reminded him of that night.

His arm next. He only had one in flesh this time. A circle without mercy, it never ends. Not even if his blood run out, emptying his soul of its fuel. It trickled down his naked chest to the waistband of his trousers, darkening the patterned fabric.

Last was his mind. He could draw this circle with his eyes closed. On his forehead. Without a mirror to reflect his sins.

When he was done, the knife dropped to the floor beside the bed and golden eyes trailed down the serene and pasty face of his beloved. As he curved down, close to his cold lips, their foreheads almost touching, Edward still thought he looked like he was only sleeping. Only that it was a sleep without dreams. Without dreams, you die.

Crimson droplets of his circle on his forehead fell on Alfons' cheek, like red rain. Red tears. The body mourning over its lost soul.

Golden eyes hardened. "Whether it be an arm or a leg, or even my heart. You can take it. So give him back..."

Only one thing in life was certain. Death. Because life and death are connected to one another like the river and the ocean. Even as Edward daubed his finger in his own blood and painted the nostalgic blood seal of his little brother on Alfons Heiderich's abdomen, it was like he could hear Alfons' very own soul still whisper in his ear, a soothing presence that laid calmness over his will to follow his beloved to the new world if he had to.

_There is no passion greater than the one_

_That touches through the heart_

_What else can explain how your smile_

_Always made my heartbeat dart_

_Or how your golden look could slow my breathing_

_While causing my spirits surfacing and leaving_

_Birthdays do not end with death_

_But they last as long as my love for you_

_It's a maelstrom of precious memories_

_Stored within our souls of two_

_Never to be lost behind closed doors_

_Because you were my gift and I was yours_

_Happy eternal birthday_


End file.
